


Memories of a Troubled Mind

by Crazy_Comet_97



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Junkertown (Overwatch), Junkrat-centric, Memories, Other, Overwatch - Freeform, POV Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Podfic Welcome, Pre-EVERYTHING, Pre-Junkertown, Pre-Omnic Crisis, Pre-Overwatch, Pre-War, Repressed Memories, Sad, Young Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, completed work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24453943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Comet_97/pseuds/Crazy_Comet_97
Summary: He doesn’t really remember everything anymore. Radiation will do that to you.Everything he says, does or even talks about is usually awash in a blur of colours and hazecome the next morning, sometimes even the next hour. He’s got a mind like a sieve and he can’t change that.Roadie gets it more than the others do.
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes & Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge
Kudos: 26





	Memories of a Troubled Mind

He doesn’t really remember everything anymore. Radiation will do that to you.

Everything he says, does or even talks about is usually awash in a blur of colours and haze come the next morning, sometimes even the next hour. He’s got a mind like a sieve and he can’t change that.

Roadie gets it more than the others do.

But there are times where he does remember though. He remembers what he thinks the years of scavenging and wars and blood and fire have taken away.

He remembers what he was before.

He doesn’t remember the house, though he sees it in his memory, like it’s far, far away and he can’t reach it no matter how far he runs. Always just out of reach.

What he does remember however was them. They were happy, all of them were happy.

Living in that little house in the middle of nowhere.

He remembers the sounds of school bells and bicycles, the roaring of the dirt and gravel under the wheels when he rode a motorbike for the first time. He can hear cows and horses, even chickens if he strains. The barking of some dogs also among the noise.

Sometimes, he even hears the laughter of a woman whose face he can’t see, but knows anywhere, joined by two others, a man and a smaller girl. He can’t see their faces anymore either, they faded into nothing with time.

They are always happy to see him and inside he feels among the confusion that same feeling, only tinged with grief and heartache, which was still very new for him.

He remembers vaguely the same woman that was laughing speaking as well, telling him a tory of how his great great something or rather was going to blow up Parliament, but didn’t.

**(Gave him the idea to rob King’s Row though with Roadie, now he thinks of it.)**

But along with the seemingly good memories his daydreams, he has some nights were terror comes to clutch him like a croc in a swamp a long ways out of Junkertown and he can’t escape.

He can see them again, the faceless family he somehow fits into, only it’s a completely different picture from the day that he sees at night.

It’s always dark, never sunny and there is tension and panic in the air. There’s fire and singing and voices he can’t make out the words from, before the omnium's fusion core was destroyed and from a window, the light finally comes, but it’s white and there’s screaming, so much screaming.

It always changes, he doesn’t know why.

The house, still unrecognisable, is boarded and dusty.

Some nights, if he’s transported to the place, he’s with the man, both of them staring out the one open window upstairs on old stools, a rifle pointed out at the night sky with bottles on every surface, splinters of glass catching what little light the stars are able to produce.

Some he stands with the woman in the kitchen, a hand ghosting her back and her head resting on his shoulder as they stare at the burnt grass outside of the back door (or what's left to see through the gaps of the boards), her own hands submerged in laundry or dishes.

Despite her face having nothing on it like eyes or lips or nose, there is always bruises. Where her eye should be, where her mouth would have opened, where her cheeks should also be, black and purple, but nothing with them.

But the worst nights he finds, despite not having felt anything properly for years since. Is when his mind flings him to the furthest corner of the house, to the little girl.

She’s always in bed and her coughing and crying fills the silence, one side of her body is normal, but the other is red and angry, flaking and raw like a cracked egg about to split open without much force.

He finds himself always mumbling something around her, he can’t hear himself talk but most of the time, she settles and the cries that pull at his fractured mind finally stop, only for the silence to come and envelop him again.

He doesn’t know which of the two are worse anymore.

If he can make it happen, he’ll usually startle himself awake and not see the end.

While he can never really remember the end of his dreams (or his dreams at all for that matter), he remembers the end to the silence all too well.

Gunfire.

It comes from every angle, every single one and it’s neverending. There’s yelling and screaming and crying from downstairs, but he’s too scared to go down there. 

There’s a rumble before feet are suddenly running under him, but just as quick as they were, they are silenced as a spray of blood suddenly shoots up from the staircase and onto the window boards, dark red against the brown grain of the wood.

He doesn’t know what he does next, his memory doesn’t stretch that far, but soon enough, he’s outside on a motorbike, driving away towards the centre of town where everything is basically dead and long gone like life before as the house is swallowed into burning, towering flames, the smell of gasoline in the air and dripping off his shoulders.

It’s the smell that thrusts him awake and back to the real world, back to the scalding outback with Roadie by his side or wherever they manage to wake up these days trying to skive police.

He’s tried many times on his own to remember (Roadie would give him hell if he even showed a string of emotion in front of him that wasn’t to do with their work or escape), or at least try to remember who they were, but he never can.

By the middle of day, either working the sweltering heat from Junkertown or riptiring his way across the world, he’s forgotten again, drowned out in that same haze of colour in place of more important things like his treasure, or that day’s spoils.

But every now and again, there are moments where he seems distant and when Roadie, always the one to put them back on track gets his attention, he just grins.

“ **Just thinkin’ about our next pit stop, mate.** ”


End file.
